


Goblincraeft

by HTADITF666



Category: World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:57:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HTADITF666/pseuds/HTADITF666





	1. "Whatever you think it's worth!"

I suppose many an old yarn has been spun about the alchemist council of the goblins, the infernal "armourers of deathwing" is the only one common folk seem to recall.  
Nobody speaks of the priests of the coin who guided the steamwheedle cartel to their fortunes in booty bay, or the island witches who communed with the water spirits and whispered back the great flood of the undermine. And I suppose no one will know either, how it is we all came to die, our quadrumvirate dismantled, one by one, buried beneath history, and a legacy of evil and deceit born from our ashes.

  
Always that story of Deathwing and his Dragonsoul...

Ironically, it was that first night i sensed something awry among our order that i had to sit through another recounting of that wretched myth. My old friend, fellow councilman, Dark goblin master of hidden esoterica and babbled menace, "Pevis Hatestain", then, as we knew him, told the tale: "our most glorious pact, our most fiendish legacy, the alchemy to rip apart the hands of gods!"  
He did have a habit to embelish our past. And the caravan of Taurahe braves escorting our journey through the thousand needles seemed unmoved by this short creature's tall tale. Still, I would put down a few coppers to testify that the only reason anyone knows of that damned dragon and his lamentable goblin cohorts is thanks to a certain starry eyed warlock.  
On our caravan trundled, and on he yammered. "The greatest transmutists of our people... The clergy of the abyss, the witches of the undergrowth, the wizrobe occult and the doom mongers.... All four conspiring against their red dragon forebears. Alchemical pioneers, plating up Neltharion to breathe in the mad voices of monsters we and we alone had first been privy to!"  
Yawn. The taurehe had tuned him out. The rest of us trying to nap. Bones aching from the juddering caravan.  
The odd wretch at the stank of Kodo; sweaty.

Kalimdor summer nights were always a chilly affair, even in the more arid reaches. We travelled in secrecy and with some regret. Perhaps the first goblins to venture out that far? Headed for the depths of Feralas? I doubt it. Those were the early days of gadgetzan, the pioneers would want scouting honours in pace with the gnomish co-founders (who never get enough credit, and never would, draft-dodgers of the second war that they were. A legacy of secrecy and shame, hidden betwixt the cleft of goblin entrepreneurs. We had that much in common, in an odd way.)  
We had left gadgetzan with odd looks and cautious whispers. The council of alchemists still inspired awe and fear. Always the fear! Great deeds rarely spoken of among any race. Something I always assumed unique to goblins somehow. We had left north we carriages of trunks of alchemical wears and wisdom, a band of hired arms, not the typical goblin mercenaries but mighty taurehe braves. Kalimdors greatest huntsmen and pathfinders! We were taking no chances. The rumours circled back to me when first we arrived.  
"I hear they're headed to meet with the highborne! They're using bio-alchemy! Gonna transmute them to sin'dorei spies!"  
"They're off to bottle the curses of Eldre'thas and turn them on the elves fighting our lads in the east!"  
"They're going to bring back demons..."  
"They're offering them demons!"  
"They're conspiring doom, even now..."  
None of those fools could possibly have imagined the truth.  
We were selling out...

"It's been a good journey. A pretty comfortable legacy, I think we'd all agree? Heck we could probably still buy our way through Kezan on clout alone! But it's time to stop fooling around like we've ever been privy to anything the other mortals of azeroth weren't about to cook up at home. We're offering first dibs!"  
Tatty Cog-Furious, our defacto leader, heir of the island witches, made a congenial pitch to Prince Tortheldrin. She at one end of that great dining table, Pevis to her right, Tyman the intrepid on her left, myself further down, and more elves present than I thought could exist in exile. Good grief! Even in ruins Eldre'thas had us all agog. All of us but Tatty. She had something cooking in her head, I could tell.  
The old prince (though he appeared young to us) had his cohorts examine the contents of our chests. Perhaps they'd seen goblin wares before, tattered together with our unique attempts at salvage, but not the alchemist wares. Ornate with carvings of our people in our richest variations, goblins, hob-gob, gremlin, urchin and fiend. Screwed up stone faces smirking and laughing, eyes trained on locks at the center of each chest. The attendants prized them open with the similarly ornate, counter-intuitive keys we had provided.  
The scrolls, likewise, rich in text. Each one sealed in wax, with the mark of each respective order within the council.  
Tortheldrin produced one of the scrolls. Ran his finger up to the seal and gave us a stern look. The seal of the clergy of the abyss. Tymen nodded.  
"Yes, that one I believe is pre-coinhood. Very baffling texts. I wouldn't touch them myself. Nothing to gain from that period by my reckoning."  
I gave him an exasperated glare.   
Tortheldrin intoned, stony and impatient, "why have you come to offer texts that profess, in your own words, nothing to gain."  
Tatty threw back her head of spiky purple hair and let out a groan. Goblin diplomacy was never her strong suit.  
The frailness of the moment suddenly began to dawn on us. Here it was then!  
The last of our secrets, our history, our discipline, our legacy. Offered up with no more interest in what they were worth than what we'd receive.  
I spoke up, on all our wretched behalf, "No no! Tymen is a ... peculiar cleric. He's more invested in modern  
unorthodoxies. We all are, in truth! New frontiers. New ideas! Non-goblin! That's the approach."  
Tortheldrin seemed unconvinced. He broke the seal and began reading the ancient priestly text.  
I could already see Tymen musing how to divert this back to his ridiculous coghead god theory.  
He closed his eyes, raised a finger and before he could begin his pontification I interrupted harsh and fast.  
"The world is changing your majesty! Not just our council. All of azeroth transmutes (heh) under the strain  
of the dark portal in the east. The first great war has bled into the second. All the kingdoms of humanity have rallied this time.  
Even mercenaries from kezan are headed out! We are not sheltered from the fallout. And neither are you I might add!  
The ogres of draenor have been sighted through these very ... forests? Jungles? What would you call this exactly... "  
It was hardly a sales pitch, self-regarding, history-in-the-making bluster to keep us on the same page.  
No one was convinced. Pevis looked at me wrly and smirked. The prince mused over my words more than i deserved.  
"There are certainly some curious doctrines written here. I do wonder how a goblin priesthood comes to be.  
Does anything like the light of elune come to touch your scheming? Cleanse the fiends among you?"  
I glared hard at Tymen, his reply was curt, "Yes, er, I suppose it always was good. For keeping tricksters and thieves in good stead..."  
"A blessing for thieves. How novel. And what of your ... darker practices."  
The prince took out a black scroll with a blacker seal. The texts within glowed in cursed, fiery ink.  
Pevis' grin had changed to a stony grimace. He turned slowly to Tortheldrin,  
intoned darkly. "Know this, my good prince. I have not entered into this pact willingly.  
And I know your history. The hubris of the Quel'Dorei. The shattering. The supposed "beauty of Azshara".  
The reason I know of your people's dabbling is precisely the reason you know nothing of ours!  
The doom mongers practiced *true* fealty to the forces of chaos. The hidden oblivions that bide their time.  
You think your people are ready to bite down once again into the fruit of true knowledge??"  
I suppose he could be forboding at times. But he kept looking back to Tatty for some sense she rallied to his words.  
She met tortheldrin's stare and scoffed lazily. The prince was unamused. He tossed the black scroll back in the trunk.  
One of the attendants at Tortheldrin's side spoke up for him. "We are the Shen'dralar. If you imagine that  
you preside over our sabotage I would correct yourself, lowly goblin.  
Is it your intention to trade these bleak texts for ours? I assume you've sought our mastery of demonology?"  
Harsh a host as he was, the prince still reprimanded him, "Come now Evenshade, our goblin friends have already agreed terms."  
Pevis couldn't help himself and began to sneer, "you think we want demonologists among our ranks? To bring the legion among the doom mongers?  
I'm amazed you elves even consider such a thing, while the fel-drunk orcs romp their way through the east.  
I wonder if the horde have yet considered an advocate among the shen'dralar, they could practically  
summon in their own personal citadel right through the cracks-  
"Enough!"  
Tatty, at last. She sunk her head into her hand, idly lolled her tongue about her cheek and stared down Tortheldrin  
through lazy eyes.  
A silence hung around us. We goblins were all exhausted, frustrated or out of our depth.  
We all knew we were only barely scraping the cunning of these elves. Last of the highbourne of Kalimdor no less.  
I'd worked so hard to set up the meeting, grease the channels, show the proper goblin diplomacy (the true, lost, fifth discipline!)  
and convince the arcanists of kalimdor to consider us worthy practicioners ourselves.  
And here we were, in such a rush to dash any good graces we had earned.  
Tatty ripped off the band-aid, "a clean trade. All the old studies of the arcane. Quel'dorei texts. Pre-shattering.  
That was the deal, yeah?"  
"Yes."  
"Then we're golden! Pack em up boys. We're heading back to Kezan."  
She gave a sharp whistle. The braves waiting outside brought in the last of the trunks. Conferred with attendant elves  
and hauled away baskets of ceramic tubes. Presumably with their own scrolls. Obseravably daintier and slimmer than ours.  
"No refunds, of course!" Tatty quipped. Just as we were ready to leave.  
Tortheldrin furrowed his brow.  
"In your favour! Of course!" She added, wryly.  
Her impulse to needle never missed it's mark. The stern prince spoke up, "Might I inquire as to your intentions with our -  
quite old - arcane texts?"  
"Huh? Oh, we have no intentions *with* the texts! They're as good as parade streamers for us. Our Toxxi here is  
as keen a study as any! We all knew what we were buying. Well, he did. I did."  
The prince arched a brow, "then what ever have you come to trade us your heritage for?"  
"We're going to sell them to the high elves in the east! They've joined the war effort! Haven't you heard?"  
"What?"  
"Yup! That's right! Perfectly preserved Quel'Dorei texts should quickly rack up some of them sweet silvermoon moneys!"  
The prince seemed baffled, but clearly perturbed. The sleight was now apparent. A prince without riches,  
made to humble himself for a tawdry goblin coin strain. That day we were no longer the council of alchemists,  
arcanists of legends. We were petty, penny grabbers, just like all the rest of our kind.  
The prince scoffed. "You barter for gold! Middlemen to our cousins the east. Aren't there goblin mercenaries enlisted?  
You would utilize our magic against your own people!"  
"Oh we have great insurance deals planted on every head of every goblin sapper out there! Make no doubt.  
Now with the elves ramping up too? The windfall is going to be huge, whichever way the second war turns!"  
Tortheldrin paced around the table and stared Tatty down.  
"You sell away your heritage? Your people's lives? You bank upon history itself? For what. A bit of gold?  
Can it really be worth so much to you?"  
"Oh no sweet prince! Each coin is scarcely the value of each subsequent coin we mint! But feel them between  
your fingers. Do, my liege! Feel that mineral. There's a spirit of the earth whispering on each golden goblin face!  
Azeroth shudders from war and the spirits beneath our world whimper for recompense. For each vein the mortal  
races bleed, there's a primordial aberration who would drink hungrily and deep on the fleeting riches of the foolish warring,  
the cartels, crowns, hordes and adventuring creeps! I'll rake what I can and pay large to the bank of trembling,  
vengeful earthen crust! Look in some of those scrolls, read the hobby blogs of the island hags! Perhaps, Prince  
Tortheldrin, you might chance upon the name of the one we truly serve!"  
We all looked at her aghast, the first we had heard of any deeper intent to our scheme. The braves hauled away the last of the cargo and  
Tatty flipped the baffled prince a coin. "A tip! For your time and trouble!"  
I felt the bile rise and the dread settle in.  
That was the moment I knew everything was going to fall to shit.


	2. Clandestine Movements

"From nut to bolt, to screw, to chasis, to flange. In such a way are all things connected. All pieces have their place. All parts, one of a whole. And the spares? Well, we all know the value of a good spare, am I right?"

We weren't back at Gadgetzan for long before Tyman had attracted an audience with his proselytizing. Of all the mortal races of Azeroth, Goblins are perhaps the least akin to the holy and devout. But if you can put the right spin on it, you can get them all lined up and whooping for coghead god, bottled moonwell water, or the vast mocking abyss. Mostly it's crackpot hokum that functions no better than our most esteemed inventions (if you could permit me such goblin blasphemy!)

Needless to say his gathering was small. Coghead god would never catch on. Tyman was as bland a goblin as you could imagine. Wide face and a blank stare, a mess of brown hair atop his head and a ridiculous pair of thick, short spectacles perched on his snub nose. Remarkable as he was charismatic. I often wondered whether it was a curse that saw him and his blunted spirituality at the seat of the alchemist council's priestly order. 

As modest a gathering as it was however, the most rapt I noticed were gnomes.

"Tell us more! Tell us more!"

Cheerily, he acquiesced. Meanwhile, Tatty, Pevis and I discussed the rest of the journey to the coast with our escort of braves. A Greying old figure by the name of Juramen led them. Stout, black horned and always smiling whenever we addressed him. I suspect he found us amusing.  
"You're through the worst of it." he intoned deeply, "The centaur bands are secluded mostly to the Needles. Though I'll insist half of our party accompany you to the shore. Tanaris still holds many surprises!"  
"Is that really necessary? We can handle ourselves against the odd wind-serpent, you know," I replied with a grin. Those Tauren I had initially reached out to for an escort made a big point about showing us Kalimdor's hospitality. They were unusually keen for such an underdeveloped people, they immediately recognised us as mystics from Kezan and wanted to make a good impression. Though we were hardly that important anymore I enjoyed humouring them.  
"It would be an honour, friend. You have already paid us most handsomely for what should only have been a cordial service, and now with your compatriots settling here in 'Gadget Zan' we have new trade in the south! We would like to ensure the beginning of a new era of goodwill between our peoples."  
"Look, I'll say it again. We're really not all that big back in Kezan! We're hardly trade princes-"  
Tatty nudged me and spoke up, "Don't listen to him. They don't know us back home cos that's how we like it. You've got the right idea, otherwise! Not a hair harmed on any of these heads or we're revoking your pay!"  
Juramen gave a gentle chuckle, "So be it! Once you are restocked and have you remaining affairs in order, we are ready to depart."  
At that, Pevis crooked his head over to Tyman and his congregation, gave a noticable shudder and marched over. I followed after, anticipating one of their usual confrontations.

Pevis squared up to him and immediately began chastising, "Alright, Holy man. We're heading out. Disperse your flock and let's get going!"  
Tyman returned him a blank, cynical expression, retorted in his monotone drawl, "I will not be joining you. I fear my time in the council is at an end. I am to stay here in Gadgetzan and found my church."  
I let out a long sigh, Pevis buried his face in his palms. The same old back and forth, again and again. Now here, in the middle of a desert, in Kalimdor of all places.  
"This again! Let me guess, Booty Bay two point oh? You think you can swindle some natives and that'll make up for your failures back home?" Pevis scorned.  
"What are you talking about Pevis, look at these gnomes! They are hanging on the very words of Coghead God! Gnomes, Pevis! There's already so much more potential among them. Certainly more than there was back in Booty Bay!"  
"There's _potential,_ in your place among the alchemist council! To reform the clergy of the abyss and found a new league of artificers!"  
"Oh honestly, Pevis. This ranting about Deathwing again?"  
"His return is  _due!_ What use is your ridiculous church going to have here when his shadow darkens the world again?"  
The congregation of settlers looked back and forth between the bickering two. These fights would never resolve without some third party intervention, and I was already so exhausted with the particularities of grim orthodoxies and sublime reformation. I gazed out to the middle distance, those early homesteads in Gadgetzan all blurred into a tableaux of rugged perseverance and pompous salvage. The skeletal structures of new buildings adjacent to unfathomable and pointless machinery, Goblin and Gnomish alike. The voices bounced back and forth and the congregation was growing more for want of spectacle than salvation. The gnomes among them, with their wide eyed faces, cherubic marvel at their new quarrelsome counterparts in this new lively outpost. I let out another sigh and endeavoured to resolve, once again, much to my chagrin, in Pevis' favour.  
"Look, Tyman. I'm sorry but he's right. Your ideas need to find purchase in Kezan first, otherwise the trade princes will just cast it all out as some new-fangled, Gnome faith. You know the history of Goblin spiritual quarrels. They always get wildly out of hand."  
Pevis grinned as I was coming to his side on the matter, but Tyman remained unconvinced. I must admit I did share some of Pevis' frustration.  
"Besides," I redoubled, in a harsher tone, "look over there In the alleys besides the inn."  
I pointed over to a series of bedraggled figures, looking at us with grim faces beneath cowls and hood, who had been quizzically watching for some time, no one else had noticed them it seemed.  
"What, refugees from Elwynn? What about them? Who cares?" Tyman remarked, indifferent.  
I leaned in and lowered my voice, "they're  _humans_ , Tyman. What, you think a human is just a tall gnome? Same gormless suggestibility? You're dead wrong, pal. Humans don't just roll with spiritual ideas like we do, they want to bind it all up to the same big, all consuming 'holy light'."  
Tyman still looked at me with a cynical frown. He didn't seem to follow my point. I hated to lecture him in front of Pevis, but the point had to be made.  
"What happens when some of these humans here start making a name for themselves? You think your dainty little church is going to hold up to the likes of a self-made baron? Oh sure, your congregation is here in Gadgetzan and it all makes sense in the way you say it does. But when these humans start building their castles and whistling back to their lords and ladies in the east, they're going to start pondering what it is you have to say and they're going to have their own conclusions. To them? Your doctrine will simply be further legwork to the holy light. And the holy light? To a human? Is manifest in this realm on the highest throne; their hereditary monarch! The light's will made manifest among men. And you and I both know exactly what a monarch means, right?"  
Tymen's face turned as he began to understand, "Taxes."  
We all shuddered. I put a friendly hand on his shoulder, "exactly. Taxes. Let's go back home to Kezan, where we're free of such things."

I steadily led Tyman away from the crowd. Pevis gave me a satisfied smirk and I rolled my eyes. As the crowd steadily dispersed I rejoined Tatty and the braves. We struggled up the Kodos they had leant us and we began our slow, long march back to the shore.

 

A little background, perhaps. Who exactly were we then? The mystics? The alchemist council of the ancient goblins? The old story goes that in our earliest efforts of civilization, long before the great shattering, we inhabited the forests between the old Empires of Trolls and Elves. We were a far more benevolent people back then, sharing secrets and pathways to the elves and trolls who chanced upon our favour. Most of all though, we shared jokes, we developed a keen sense for riddles and mischief. You might be surprised to learn that the goblins of old were a very literary people! We had a culture of bards and braggarts, we scribbled epics and quandries across the walls of cavernous networks of early Azeroth. In time our finest goblin poets and chatter-mongers attracted the keen eye of a playful red dragon. A hand to the life-binder herself! They had witnessed our kindness to the elves, our intrepid concessions to the trolls, joyed in our mischief and circular goblin wisdom. This dragon wanted to see us flourish, to transform the world with our unpredictable nature.  
And so we were bequeathed the mystic arts, we learned the deeper trickery of magic, the humours of the very spirits of the world and the abyss beyond, we learned what it meant to weave chaos beyond comprehension and the healing power of the sublime ironies. Fundamentally, however, we were taught that alchemy would be central to our nature, the science of change and transformation would be bound essentially with our new wisdom.  
It was an all too brief golden age, for goblin kind.  
The more we refined our knowledge, the more arcane our discoveries, the more secretive we became. Not just from the neighbouring elves and trolls, but from each other. We also quickly abandoned our playful, jolly ways. Well, the kinder playfulness, at least. Now the typical goblin anticipated reward on high for any such acts of altruism! Certainly no more riddles and poems, that was for sure.  
With the growing petulance of the goblins it became harder to impart the mysticism we had learned. Only a select elite were ever drawn to our brief dalliance with the cosmic sciences and even they felt something was missing from it all. Who were we with our sudden magic and inventiveness? What of those frail green scoundrels cast against the magnanimity of Troll and Elf?

Of all of those early mystics, it was a priest by the name of Meklo who truly seized on our unrest. He was an incredibly talented alchemist who had spent all of his youth endeavouring to unravel cosmic riddles, deep in the labyrinths of what would later become Undermine. Many goblins still debate if it was madness or truth that he discovered in those depths, but when he rose at last to the surface he spoke of a vision, our ascent wouldn't be at the whim of a simple red drake, but in service of the almighty Earth warder, ruler of the black dragonflight! Neltharion would have a council of goblin alchemists to ensure a sleight of hand that would crack the face of the world itself.  
Now, personally, I'd argue that it wasn't evil in the hearts of those early goblins. They just had a hunger for excess! They didn't want to see the world  _end_ necessarily, but the notion of a pratfall that dismantled empires? And! I'd just like to add! It wasn't exactly like the Elves responded to us any better! In becoming more secretive we were quickly scorned! Our outposts demolished, nascent goblin labyrinths smoked out so that they could use the space for their demonic cults. Of course we had no idea that they were entering into their own dark follies, we just saw hoity elves who thought they were above a bit of goblin fun!   
So goblin fun took a dark turn.  
Meklo restructured the alchemists. The council would have one representative of each discipline. And the goblins were disciplined like never before. They all rallied to his vision with new verve and lustre! The early goblin shaman learned to commune with the most chaotic of elementals, goblin mages learned incendiary fire magic to rival that of any elf or troll, and a new sect of warlocks perfected a technique of binding imps from the firelands, mad and deeply hidden, untouched by even the burning legion. And our first goblin priesthood, lead by Meklo himself, were devoted entirely to the shuddering, vast ennui at the heart of all jape, prank and jest, the mocking laugh of the abyss that only ever laughs  _at,_ never  _with._  
And our alchemy transformed as well. No longer were we creatures of hidden routes and forest-ways mashing unguents and mixing incendiary powders. With our devotion to putting one over on the world, we had alchemized compounds of all the extremities of the universe. It was our greatest achievement, neither paralleled before or since. We helped Neltharion forge the Dragonsoul.

And the rest, of course, is history! Again, though, I must stress, we weren't evil! Goblinkind never had it's comeuppance because there was no moral quandry at play. We excelled above and beyond any of the other mortal races, whatever they might think. The world shattered, Neltharion ascended by our hand, our need for the greatest subversion of all, roundly satisfied. Meklo was wise enough to know the folly of power and retreated into obscurity.  
In those days that was our advantage, all the other mortal races doomed themselves whilst we all knew the golden rule. Never get attached! Everything changes. Go with the flow. That's basic alchemy! A maxim, no less, that we stood by to guide our people. Through ignominy to slavery, inventors excess to economic depression (and believe me, we weathered a fair few depressions!). The council took on many shapes and faces, arguably more honourable in some areas, and more devious in others. 

I also realise the irony, me here, recounting our days with Deathwing. I never like that story because it made us all sound like hooded conspirators, unmaking the world. A story like that is only worth telling if you can appreciate the nuance, the finesse! You start picking at the wrong threads and I'm sure it's just another way to spin goblinkind as the aiders and abettors of an early apocalypse. What if we had all stayed hidden away in our holes and burrows, did the Dragonsoul *really* impact history that much? Personally, I don't think so. It was all bound to happen in some way or another! We goblins were just having a bit of fun! Start taking the wrong angle on our history and it's enough to turn a keen goblin into a crank. A little like Pevis...

Of course, the more you start moralizing about the actions of the old alchemist council, the closer it seems like we were still due a comeuppance...

 

We had been trudging through the dust of Tanaris for half a day perhaps. Tatty had some pact with some mischievous zephyr creatures that kept the dust out of our eyes and throats. Juramen and his band pathfinders kept us flanked on all sides. The cargo we were returning with was far slimmer that what we'd taken to Eldre'Thas, the baskets simply hung off the sides of the kodos. The kodos stank. The desert sweltered and the zephyrs did nothing to cool us. I necked the last of my water with the reassurance that, over that last blank dune-top horizon, the great blue expanse of the ocean was waiting. Our time in Kalimdor finally at an end.

We were waiting to be greeted by Tatty's younger sister, Hetris - Hetty as we all knew her. A true matriarch of the isles, even then. Three minutes the younger of her mad sister though, and thusly no inheritor to the order. Which suited her just fine, she took up engineering, freed from the obligations of the alchemists and coaxed intrepid air and water spirits to aid her mechanical projects. I heard a rumour she had a hand in the early prototypes for the first zeppelins, indulging the rest of her days on the subsequent fortune. 

Zeppelin travel was always too dangerous to southern Kalimdor of course, so we'd all travelled by a modest skipper. There in the bay, our meagre vessel was swathed on all sides by Zandalari galleys. Hetty herself, accosted by a band of heavily decorated trolls, locked in some furious disagreement.

Just our luck.

I practically saw Pevis' ears prick up. His tell tale itch for a good fight. Tatty craned her neck between us, smirked and remarked "Now whatever do these trolls want with dear old Hetty!"  
Juramen at the front of our band held up an open hand, either to steady us, or the trolls ahead. We approached slowly and cautiously. One of the trolls, an aged figure with a fantastic plume of greyed hair came to address us, "More goblins then! Can I expect some explanation of what devilry is taking place in this bay?"  
Hetris seemed relieved, but still a little frustrated. We looked to her for some indication of what was wrong. "Apparently no troll has seen as squall service a skipper before!"  
"We ain't never seen no squall servicing a boat for  _pay_!" one of the younger, disquieted trolls yelled back.  
"We pay our squalls more than a good wage!" Hetris affirmed.  
Juramen dismounted and addresed the old Troll, "Apologies, emissary. The shaman of the goblins have some unconventional methods but they've curried favour with some of the more restless spirits in these lands. I do not feel there is foul play among them!"  
The old troll looked us up and down. A brief sense of unease washed over us all, save for the Tauren, serene and cordial.   
The party of trolls must have been between ten or twelve, all of them decorated in their garish fetishes. It was impossible to tell where the tusks, noses and ears ended and where the masks and carvings began. I've heard goblin engineering described as chimeric, but it had nothing on the ritual garments of these trolls. The most remarkable quality however, was the lack of uniformity. You could count on trolls to adhere to the same conventions of dress, but this was a mix of different castes. This must have been some kind of diplomatic mission, Juramen's address confirmed as much. Not raiders, then. Perhaps we were safe.  
"A goblin shaman! Goblins communing with the spirits! HA!" the mocking rattled from the back. A spry, long haired witch doctor shuffled to the front, he almost seemed to dance between our party as he appraised us.   
The older troll turned his head to him and acknowledged his query, "Aye, Maeli, Goblin shaman, in harmony with the restless spirits of kalimdor. Can you believe such a thing?"  
Tatty dismounted and approached the inquisitive troll, this "Maeli". He held up his hands and backed away a few exaggerated paces in mock surrender, the band of trolls all laughed.  
"Yeah, we have some arrangements! A little gust of sand back there told me a party of clowns was down the beach digging on my sis. They not let you know we were coming? See that's what I find funny! How is a whacky goblin Shaman getting first dibs on elemental comms?"  
Maeli leant in to her suddenly, spoke melodiously from beneath his ritual mask, "oh your coming ain't my business, it's when you're going! Tell me young goblin shaman, what communion do you have with the departed?"  
Tatty screwed up her face, "why would we need any communion! We're about the to and fro! Goblin life is easy come easy go."  
Maeli gave a dark chuckle, I noticed a few of the other trolls shaking their heads. Maeli continued his menacing speech, "I am one of the death speakers, I make no pacts with winds or waters. Mine is the domain between living and dead. And for each troll life lost, I speak the words that bind all the cosmos, into the effigy of their rest and into their departed soul, that they may still speak among the living. Do you know those words, goblin? That tie worlds and lives? If there's mystics among your kind I'm sure they must have been spoken. I wonder if you know what they are?  
Tatty gave a scoff that turned to a cackle. Juramen quickly spoke up.  
"My friends. These are changing times. We are a world away from the war in the east but we know to expect new motions in the world, new currents in the waters, new whispers in the winds. Whom so ever of our people can hear and speak with the world shall each have an important place in Kalimdor. Emissary, I trust your party has arrangements to make with the Farraki?"   
The older troll gave a nod, called over Maeli, who followed, still squared up with our party, still a spring in his step.  
With that the party of trolls steadily departed, on foot, no less, through the desert. Mystics though we were we must surely have seemed out of our depth, with our rented kodo, rented protection and paid off elementals. Pevis kept a calm and distrustful eye on them. I heard the crackle of some shadow magic rushing about his fingers.  
"You only had to give the cue, Tatty, I'd've had all their souls screaming. No ritual burial for a single one of them!" Pevis muttered.  
Tatty looked on at the departing trolls, with steady caution, but not weariness, "naw, they seem to have their own little schemes and ideas! Perhaps they're not so different from us."  
  
After we had taken the last of the baskets off the Kodos, the squalls lunged the skipper onto the beach and the tauren even helped load up our cargo. I gave a last few gracious thanks to Juramen while Hetris appeared to confer with one of his party. It had been an otherwise uneventful expedition, I had no doubt the Tauren we certainly to thank for it. I often wished it hadn't fallen to me all the time to express gratitude, but goblin gratitude was a rarity. We bid our last farewells, our vessel fully stucked, the spirits holding the hull safe and tight, our nautical departure back to Kezan was on it's way.

"Pst, Toxxi," Hetris called me over, while the others reclined on the deck and sipped from our store of cola.  
"Oh, hey Hetty. What's up? Those trolls not too harsh on you I hope?" I inquired  
"Hah! I've had more trouble from island pygmies. Did you pick up any of that Briarthorn I told you about at Gadgetzan?"  
"Ugh. It's all just construction sites out there! There's barely a market set up. To be honest it didn't even occur to me to ask around... my bad I suppose."  
She produced a few bristles from a herb pouch at her side and gave me a knowing smile "good thing I checked in with some of those tauren boys! Honestly you guys should be glad I have your backs."  
"Nice! Good looking out, Hetty!"  
That brief sense of relief didn't last long. Likewise, her smile turned to thoroughness, "you know what comes next, right? I brew the concoction-"  
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Then we find out if these dreams really are just dreams."  
She picked up on my discomfort and tried to give me a little reassurance, "hey now. If they're not, that's a whole view into a whole other world! What did you say that kids name was again? 'Toz gee?' That's the boon of all hidden wisdoms right there! Isn't that exactly the sort of stuff you're always trawling for?"  
"Oh, sure! An informant from another world. Why not. I'm sure I could live with an astral link"  
I frowned and gazed back at the fading land mass. The small beach that retreated back to the dunes and off into the desert. For a brief moment I thought of that slick, dancing witch doctor and his words about bindings the souls of the departed. It didn't sit with me well at akk.

  
"I mean, I could live with the link. But not all the death. So much death out there on Draenor, Hetty... why would I wanna be strapped in to all that?"


End file.
